It had happened in the fraction of a second. It was a wonder she had caught it at all.
She was still fixated on the spot where it had vanished, mouth agape in awe, when he came to her.
"What did you wish for?"
She felt arms wrap around her from behind, his chest pressing close, his warmth seeping through his layers of jumpers and the blanket draped over his shoulders. Her blanket, in shades of purples and blues, old and threadbare. It had been new once, when her parents had given it to her years ago, supposedly to fend off the chilly nights in the Gryffindor dormitory, but in reality she knew it was meant to be a reminder of home. A one-way reminder now, an echo of love that could never find its way back to the ones who had woven it into its very fibers.
The corners of her lips curled a little, her focus not straying from that tiny corner of the sky, now dimmer and void of light. "A better life."
His hold tightened, his entire frame tensing at her words. She felt the flutter of the muscles in his chest against the top of her own spine. He was tall, a man, yet the limbs encircling her seemed more delicate than they ought to be. Robbed of strength, which was scarce these days.
"We could run away," Harry started. His husky voice sent shivers down her arms, her flesh prickling in its wake.
She gave a soft laugh. "Isn't that what we're doing now?"
He was serious. It was one of those nights, after all. "We could change our names and move far away from here, somewhere in Ireland, in a village on the coast, where magic is just a children's fantasy and Vol– Tom… is an old wives' tale."
"We could live in Rome, in a city of classical beauty and pine trees, or Bali, where we'd lie on the beach all day, and then again from dusk till dawn because you love the night."
"We'd have new identities, new eye colours. Of course, you'd keep your hair because I… I'm obsessed with it."
This was news to her, but he wound her loose curls around his finger and gently tugged to make a point.
"My hair?" she echoed. "Really? The bird's nest?"
"Really."
She hummed noncommittally, inviting him to go on.
"Our home would have stone walls, and on the front porch we'd line up all the seashells we can find from our strolls on the beach, one for each day we live there." He paused and then chuckled, the sound rumbling through her back, his breath tickling her ear. "You'd likely turn it into a challenge to find the most beautiful ones. You'd win, no doubt about it."
"Said the seeker."
"Hush," he said, the tip of his fingers lightly poking into her sides, before continuing. "Or we could live in an old, abandoned castle, just the two of us with only the ghosts for company, and the black cats who already inhabit it."
"We could go to Kerkyra, where your parents met, and live in your grandma's house, breathe life into that place again, and make love on the sand until the tide rises. And afterwards, if you want, submerged in the salty water, because I don't need air and you can take mine."
"I would love to live in a castle again," Hermione confessed.
"Yeah. Me too."
It was a nice picture, what he painted, the two of them hand in hand, walking along the edge of the sea or on top of a castle parapet, the wind picking at their clothes, tousling the hair of an unremarkable couple in love.
"And you could live with that?" She turned within his embrace and tilted her head to meet his gaze. "Could you truly forsake them? Abandon your friends to their fate?"
"We've done enough, Hermione," Harry smiled bitterly. "Look at us. We don't have much else to give. What more do I owe them?"
Nothing. Not his life, nor yet another sacrifice.
"We've done enough," he stated again.
She disagreed. She knew he did too. Come morning, he would wake up and resume the hunt because that's who he was. He wouldn't be able to condemn their world to darkness.
Now it was her turn in this script they were indulging.
She drew in the biting air, poised on the thin line between a sweet fantasy and harsh reality. She felt the latter's grip around her neck, threatening to choke her, or perhaps she was merely suppressing her sobs too hard.
"Luna," she uttered hoarsely.
His arms around her loosened.
"Neville."
He shut his eyes, head bowing under the weight of the list of names she supplied. They had done this a dozen times already.
"Dean."
Each reminder felt like a stone sinking into her stomach.
"Ginny."
He let his hands drop from her back, leaving a vacuum of ache.
"Ron."
The warmth that had cradled her so tenderly retreated and she felt like dying. Harry took a step back, a step that he had taken so many times in the past few weeks, each instance more unbearable than the last. Why did they keep clinging to these fleeting illusions? They only left them miserable and hurting, the unattainable screaming louder than ever at them from the other side of the universe, taunting them, dangling what will never be in front of their nose. If Hermione could reach out and clutch the ephemeral promises spoken in low murmurs in the dark, it would be to shatter them in her fist.
Harry's cheeks were wet. No sadness or anger or disappointment marred his face, and if there was something akin to longing in there, in those eyes of the colour of the budding oak leaves they may never see again after this endless winter, Hermione refused to acknowledge it. Not while she was already erasing their way out in favour of almost certain death.
"Goodnight, Hermione." With a nod, Harry was gone.
Alone, she looked back skyward, searching for the place where she had seen the star fall, but the dark expanse was vast, revealing nothing, or concealing everything; it was hard to tell.
Hermione's lips quivered as she repeated her wish to the night in a sigh of desperate hope.
She remained there, lingering at the entrance of the tent, looking for a sign, yearning for magic. Waiting for Harry to change his mind and whisk her away from this war. Waiting for a gift, a miracle.
But the snow glaring white in the wood didn't melt and yield to new life, and the air held no promises of spring.
The world around her was still, and only silence answered.